


Underneath the Silence

by Neocolai



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Has Issues, Protective Jason Todd, Tim Drake Gets a Hug, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, but he’s trying to be a good brother, just completely oblivious to his kids’ issues, mute!Tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:09:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27964340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neocolai/pseuds/Neocolai
Summary: It took Bruce too long to realize the manor was quieter than normal.“Where’s Tim these days?”
Comments: 10
Kudos: 333





	Underneath the Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a ficlet for the already well-versed mute!Tim prompt. I just wanted a scenario where Damian brought Tim coffee, but the muse skipped that scene and turned the story into a “Bruce needs to hone his observation skills” short instead. Maybe next time... :/

It took Bruce too long to notice the empty feel in a silent room. The distinct lack of pattering on a phone screen, or the smell of dark roast, or near-inaudible breathing. Even the sense of presence for someone dropping in overnight and vanishing before he was noticed — gone.

“Where’s Tim these days?” he broached to Dick immediately.

Slumped shoulders tensed and Dick choked on the piece of toast he was mangling. He swallowed with a painful grimace and answered, “He’s managing. He texts, sometimes.”

“I haven’t seen him on patrol,” Bruce considered. Damian bore the classic red and green of Robin these days. He assumed at first that Tim was coordinating with the Titans for a few weeks. “When did you see him last?”

Uneasy silence. “Last week,” Dick said, setting down the toast disinterestedly. “He’s fine. For all that’s said and done. We keep in touch.”

“He’s working solely with the Titans now?” Bruce assumed. That would make sense. It wasn’t too uncommon for Tim to disappear with his team for long periods of time, and Bruce’s absence might have driven him to focus on his own team. He still should have seen the young man on patrol, however, or received an update on his progress. At the very least, Tim should have called by now.

A father returning from the dead was a remarkable occasion, after all.

“Actually, the Titans is Dami’s gig now,” Dick said, looking at the toast like it was about to sprout wings and bite him.

Bruce waited for the concluding statement. “And....?”

“Tim didn’t text you?” Dick evaded poorly, blue eyes troubled as he picked off the crust.

“Dick.”

“At all,” Dick established. He sighed. “Well, that figures.”

Bruce didn’t have Alfred’s keen insight, but he had a fairly good grasp of his children tells, and Dick was infallibly transparent. “So when did he drop the cape?”

Blue eyes rounded and Dick opened and closed his mouth a few times, no doubt hoping to excuse his brother. The rigidness in his shoulders spoke volumes. Batman needed Robin, and Tim had seen fit to dwell on his own loss. Left Gotham behind. Suffered his team to work with his younger brother. Expected Dick to keep up without a proper partner. Bruce frowned sharply, once again aware that his eldest had grown too quickly, thrust from his childhood too soon. The sudden shift in responsibility hadn’t served him well. He was too thin now — all sharp angles and lean frame — stretched beyond his limits for too long, until every coping mechanism was exhausted. Perhaps his shoulders stooped less now that he didn’t have to bear the added weight of Batman’s legacy and Damian’s welfare, but soldiers never left the battlefield without scars.

“It’s not really his fault,” Dick mumbled, looking anywhere except at Bruce. “Things went... bad... after you left. I didn’t handle it right. He just needs a little more time.”

Time to mourn? They all had grieved. Time to reinstate himself in the team? A space that wouldn’t be empty if he hadn’t walked out. Even the Red Hood partnered alongside Batman while Bruce was gone. The city didn’t wait for its guardians to ‘come to terms.’ Tim had no more reason to walk out than any of his brothers, and at the conclusion of the chaos, when the absent father returned, he stayed in the outskirts.

“Bruce, leave him alone for now,” Dick insisted, wariness hardening his expression. Once there was youthful unease and rebellion in the face of conflict. His stint as Batman had torn childhood away. “Don’t go to him like this. You don’t know what changed while you were away.”

“Then tell me,” Bruce insisted.

“That’s not my place to say.” Face uncharacteristically blank, Dick swept crumbs off his hands and snatched up his abandoned plate, marching for the kitchen. He passed Damian just as the hollow-eyed boy was entering the dining room, sleepy and ruffled like a fluffy owl chick. Bruce didn’t miss the surreptitious dip in his eldest son’s posture as he bent to give Damian a good morning hug — and murmured something in his ear. Damian stilled, sleep-dulled eyes snapping to alert. Bruce could already see the evasive calculations mapping out in his son’s mind.

So they _were_ hiding something.

“Morning, Damian,” Bruce said, feigning interest in the sports section of the morning paper as Damian stiffly sat down.

“Good morning, Father.” Brisk and polite. Too bristly, even for Damian’s breakfast routine.

“Gotham Knights are playing next week,” Bruce commented, taking a ponderous sip of coffee. “You’ve never seen a game, have you?”

Uncomfortable wriggling. “Grayson took me once.”

Bruce cringed, taking a too-hot swallow to bury the curl of envy. One more first that he’d missed with his son. “Well.... it’s been a while since I last saw a game. I thought we could all go together.”

Suspicion mingled with intrigue. “That would be acceptable,” Damian said casually. Successful parry. Talia had taught her son well.

“Your brothers will make it entertaining, at the least,” Bruce hinted.

“Grayson is... excitable in a competitive environment,” Damian agreed in a careful tone.

“He dragged Tim into more than one shenanigan, now that I remember,” Bruce considered. Gauntlet thrown. “Where is Tim these days? Dick told me you’re now leading the Titans.”

Damian looked positively grey. “Drake is exploring more suitable avenues.”

He definitely had contrived that excuse on his way to the table.

“Oh?” Bruce prodded casually. “What made him to decide to look outside of Gotham?”

“He did not leave —“ Biting his tongue, Damian growled softly and stabbed at the plate Alfred set before him.

So even Tim’s whereabouts was confidential information these days. Bruce wasn’t aware of an instance where Damian wasn’t eager to tattle every time his brother tripped up his own cape.

“Damian.” Bruce gave the boy a level stare as he twitched, all too eager to follow Dick’s example and abandon the table. “Why did Tim leave you in charge of the Titans?”

Damian bristled, raking his fork through tofu menemen. “Drake did not put me in charge. Grayson assigned me.”

“Then why did Tim leave?” Bruce asked directly. “What happened, Damian?”

Sullen eyes dropped, and Damian’s mouth pressed in a thin line. “I am not permitted to share this information,” he said at last. “Perhaps you should contact the source.”

Either Tim had so flagrantly abandoned the cape that they refused to speak of it, or something went down. Very well, then. If both of his sons refused to cooperate, Bruce would go to ‘the source.’

Alfred always knew what was happening with his boys.

* * *

There were three things Bruce dreaded to find in the kitchen: a scattered wound kit, Stephanie cooking, and Alfred arranging a care package. The first two were obvious, and usually handled with a kind but firm command. (Including, but not limited to, “Alfred is definitely in charge of dinner,” or, “Wrap that up and go straight downstairs where we have the proper equipment for arterial bleeding.”)

Alfred’s care packages were a panic trigger of their own. A care package meant that one of the family was sick and too stubborn to come home, or nursing a new bout of depression, or living off canned goods and pride, or moping through another neglected birthday after Bruce misread the calendar.

Seeing coffee cake and casserole and lazagna and macadamia cookies nestled in the thermal bag, Bruce braced himself for the wave of remorse most commonly associated with ‘Gotham’s worst parent.’ “Who’s sick, Alfred?”

To his credit, the butler only hesitated a moment as he added a glass bowl of banana pudding. “It’s simply a reminder to Master Timothy that pure caffeine makes an inadequate diet. You know how the young man is.”

“Of course,” Bruce murmured, not understanding at all. Tim might be highly reliant on the stimulant, but he wasn’t self-negligent. He once plotted to the milligram what ratio of vitamins he needed for his body volume, and if he skipped an occasional meal he made it up at a greasy diner with friends. Tim didn’t need to be reminded to take care of himself.

(Tim also had his own apartment now, and had dropped the Robin title. Too many factors had changed in Bruce’s absence.)

“Is Tim okay?” Bruce prompted softly. Grief for the loss of another father was anticipated. Resentment over Damian’s presence in his family might trigger a final push of rebellion. Neither scenario required meal intervention.

“He is in good health, and showing great promise in his studies,” Alfred said calmly.

Studies? Tim was back in school? “Alfred...“ Bruce said weakly. “What happened while I was gone?”

The older man meticulously zipped the thermal bag closed, hefting it with a practiced hand. “It is not my place to say, Master Bruce. Have you spoken with Master Timothy yet?”

“No,” Bruce admitted in a voice thick with guilt. “I thought he would have called by now....”

“Is it not a father’s love that compels him to reach out to his children?” Alfred prompted gently. “Even when they fail to trust him?”

“I... was the one who failed,” Bruce admitted heavily. “I didn’t even check on him. Not once, Alfred. I don’t even know what he’s doing right now.”

Pressing the care package into Bruce’s hands, Alfred smiled. “There is no time like the present to make amends. He’ll be at his apartment at this time.”

“Is he all right?” Bruce prodded. “The boys are acting like he lost a limb — Alfred, what am I missing?”

Saddened eyes had grown more shadowed in recent months, but they still mustered a fond twinkle. “That is for you to ask him, Master Bruce. It is not my burden to share.”

Swallowing, Bruce tucked the tote bag under his arm, practically running to the garage. How long. How serious. When would they have told him if he hadn’t finally realized that Tim was no longer around?

How badly had he messed up?

* * *

He rang the doorbell once. Twice. Leaned against the doorpost and wondered if maybe he’d picked the wrong apartment complex. (Tim wouldn’t have stepped out — not if he expected Alfred to visit.)

He was just about to text Dick for the correct address when the door swung open, baring Jason’s grim smile. “Hey Alfie, thought you’d gotten lost or.....”

What little mirth veiled hollow eyes promptly vanished. Jason’s teeth bared in a snarl as he stepped outside, closing the door firmly behind him. “What are you doing here?”

What was _Jason_ doing here, the question lodged in Bruce’s throat. Jason, who had snubbed his texts, skirted the manor like a banshee running from a Pentecostal revival, and bailed on every patrol since Dick relinquished the cowl, was hovering on Tim’s doorstep like an angry watchdog.

Times had changed, indeed.

“I... brought this for Tim,” Bruce said numbly, holding up the care package with increasing doubt.

“Dick put you up to this, didn’t he?” Jason swore. “What, is he worried I’m gonna break his little bird? I dumped the helmet; what more does he want?”

“I wasn’t aware....” Bruce started to bluster.

Jason cut him off with a savage growl, arms folded tight across his chest, posture looming defensively, every word practiced as though he rehearsed it to himself a hundred times a day. “I take him to his sign classes. I pick him up from his therapy sessions. I learned bloody hand-speak for him — what more can do you people want from me? I could donate my vocal chords. Would that satisfy everyone? At least I’m trying to prove that I’m sorry! You haven’t stopped to see him once since you re-materialized!”

Head spinning, Bruce stepped back to absorb the revelation. “Vocal — sign classes? Jason, what are you....?”

The doorknob turning saved him from a thousand questions. Sneakers shuffled at the threshold, thin hands bracing the jamb, wary blue eyes peeking out. Too-long black hair, bony fingers, turtleneck collar pulled up to the chin. Jason looked down with gruff fondness, muttering a low, “Be there in a sec, Tim.”

Furtive eyes settled on Bruce and the teenager stiffened, sure seconds from bolting back into the apartment.

“Tim!” Bruce appealed, reaching out to catch him. “Tim, wait. Please.”

It was instinct born of raising a daughter who couldn't express herself with words. It was simple addition: high collars, defender at the door, texting. It was the dread in Tim’s eyes as he waited for one more person to blurt out the questions he couldn't answer anymore.

Bruce dropped his fist to his chest and rubbed in a circular motion, tapped four fingers to his chin, and finished with a dipped hand circling his chest. _‘I’m sorry. Please talk to me.’_

Blue eyes widened before Tim stepped back, limp hands falling away from the door. A silent tear ran down his cheek before he buried his face in his hands. The care package clattered onto the steps as Bruce stooped to envelop the teen, rubbing his shoulders when trembling escalated to full body shakes. He barely noticed when Jason muttered an excuse and ducked inside with the care package, emerging momentarily with his keys and motorbike helmet, head ducking low.

Tim didn't pick up on the departure. He curled against Bruce, hands darting lightning fast (of _course_ he’d mastered ASL in a year), too fast for Bruce to grasp anything more than concepts and feelings. ‘ _You’re here_ ,’ he caught at once (as if he would have delayed an hour longer if he had only known). _‘Not to fuss,_ ’ the interminable curse of the boy’s pride and self-sufficiency. _‘Jason’s sorry_ ’ — and that was enough to raise Bruce’s hackles, for the rattle of signs that follow definitely insinuated that his second eldest was involved, and didn’t they settle this after the last time he tried to maul his brother?

He managed to coral Tim inside and settle him on the couch before he could hyperventilate. (From relief or stress, Bruce wasn't sure yet, but Tim was doing the equivalent of speed-talking with his hands and he was still forgetting to breathe between sentences.) There was too much information to track. Tim gestured around the uncharacteristically cluttered apartment, jabbering about college and photography and physics and a thousand things that lit up his face with an elation Bruce hadn’t seen since a boy showed up on his doorstep boasting about photographic evidence. There wasn't a crumpled energy drink can in sight, but there were two half-full mugs on the table and the remains of Thai takeout. (He was comfortable around Jason; ergo, frequent visitor.) Tim launched into a tale about Stephanie’s latest school project and somehow that tailed into a demonstration involving the graphs and codes strewn across the table. It looked like calculus. (How many night classes was the kid taking?) Tim's avidness was like a crocus breaking through the snow to find the sun: he wanted to share everything at once, every day Bruce had missed for the last year. Bruce had never seen the teen so....

Relaxed.

Tim had lost his voice, his career as Robin, his bid for "normalcy," and every link with the majority of the speaking world, and he seemed.... happy. As if the responsibility was finally gone, and he could just be Tim.

How much did a boy sacrifice to offer the world another Robin?

 _‘Jason’s sorry,’_ Tim emphasized again, as though Bruce _needed_ to understand his point. ‘ _He helps. We share classes. He’s learning ASL.’_

Uneasily, Bruce tugged at his own collar, until Tim reluctantly pulled down the red turtleneck, revealing the vivid rope across his throat. _‘Jason,’_ Tim admitted unhappily. Immediately he followed up with, ‘ _He’s sorry. He helps me. Everyone helps. I go to school, Alfred brings me food, Damian visits, Dick meets me on Sundays, Steph brings homework, Cass talks, Jason is here. Don’t be mad at Jason.’_

 _‘I’m not angry,’_ Bruce signed. Disappointed. Perplexed. Angry at himself, for failing his sons. 

Perhaps he _was_ angry at Jason, but he saw the defeated slump in his son’s shoulders, and the years of guilt looming ahead of him. Jason was already punishing himself.

 _‘I’m not angry_ ,’ Bruce repeated. ‘ _Sad. I didn’t know.’_

Tim ducked his head, the shyness from before stealing his luster. ‘ _Didn’t want to bother.’_

Of course he didn't want to bother anyone. When did Tim ever speak up? Voice his own objections. Disturb the symmetry of stronger wills. Put a bolt in the wheels turning around him. Sighing, Bruce tugged the teen down to rest against him, nestling his chin on the dark head. _‘Always tell me,’_ he finger-spelled. _‘I will listen.’_

He failed to listen before, when Tim had a voice and was drowned out by the roar of Gotham. He failed to notice when Robin sported red and gold and a whirling staff. He failed to pay heed when a young detective solved riddles and codes that no one else could untangle. He wasn’t there before. 

He would not make that mistake again.

He would be there when Tim graduated with two bachelors and fourteen offers for higher institutions. He’d revamp the entire WayneTech building to accommodate a CEO with just a tablet and a brilliant head full of new ideas. He’d rework the Bat communications system until Red Robin could reinstate himself as the silent hero of Gotham. He would do everything it took to make Tim part of their world.

It shouldn’t have taken a catastrophe to notice who was getting left behind. Never again. His son might be mute, but from this day on, he would always have a voice. 

Bruce would make sure of it.


End file.
